Chapter Twenty.

Justin closed the distance between himself and Reardon pretty quickly-for some reason he didn't want to let him out of his sight, so he hurried along the midway, running the last few yards toward the Sideshow tent. He felt better now, his head much clearer. He'd been knocked silly back there on the midway, knocked silly and blacked out for a moment or two, taken to a slippery world of nightmarish dreams, fantasies born of all the comic books and DVDs his mother so frowned upon. He felt better now, a little stronger as his mind kicked into gear. He was back with it now, back to reality.

He felt better now, but still...

He watched the wide banner flapping in the breeze as he approached the tent. See The Pickled Punk! it read. Pounds Of Patty! Watch The Hands Of Wonder! Talk To The Alligator Boy! Marvel At The Rubber Woman! See The Fabulous Half Man! Meet Sword Swallowing Sammy!

Seven pictures were emblazoned on the wide surface of the tent, three on either side of the entrance and one above it; life-sized caricatures of the Sideshow performers, Justin figured. One depicted a huge, liquid-filled bottle. A child's body rested in the murky fluid, his shriveled skull round as a honeydew melon. He floated there, eyes closed, arms drifting out below his distended stomach. Beside him on the tent was a gigantic woman in a long flowing dress. Her hair was brown, her eyes a darker shade of it. There was a sword swallower in a gold lame outfit, a man with dark green scales instead of skin, a young boy in a sailor suit tossing b.a.l.l.s into the air, and a beautiful woman in a bright red outfit that barely covered her at all. A bizarre-looking creature with no arms and no legs rounded out the group, and a chill went up Justin's spine when he looked up at it.

He saw them all as he chased Reardon down the midway, finally catching him just as he was entering the tent.

A group of people were midway through the exhibit, lined up in front of the juggler who was housed in a cage, his hands busy manipulating a series of multicolored b.a.l.l.s-five of them, which he somehow managed to keep in the air. Sure-handed, he was, seemingly at ease with his surroundings. He was just a kid, probably no older than Justin himself. He wore a bored expression on his face, as if he were on a production line, watching a conveyor belt deliver another round of nuts and bolts. The sailor's suit he wore had white bellbottom pants with thin blue piping up the legs, a starched dress-white top, and a spiffy white hat that could've come straight off Gilligan's head. The crowd oohed when he used a bare foot to kick another ball into the air, ah-ing as he effortlessly incorporated it into the rainbow line of them rising and falling within the cage.

Justin had seen that cage before, lined up on the back of a flatbed truck. Whoever had been in it earlier this afternoon didn't look much like this guy. At least Justin didn't think he had. That kid looked like some kind of prisoner, not a carnival worker bored to tears by his daily routine. Justin didn't remember seeing this guy at all. Of course, he and Reardon had stopped looking once the corncob pipe came out, and that smoke ring hung frozen in the air in front of Fred Hagen's face.

Justin stood there, looking out at the cages, at what was housed within them, knowing he had never seen anything quite like it. Yes, he had seen Sideshow freaks before, in booths and stalls, center stage in the middle of a dimly-lit tent-never in cages, though, and he wondered why these people were locked inside them.

"Look at him go," Reardon said, as the juggler kicked yet another ball into the air-seven of them now spinning before a slight pair of hands moving fast as humming bird wings.

Moving too fast, Justin thought, as Reardon said, "C'mon!"

He stepped up to the cage nearest the entrance, and Justin followed. Inside the cage, a brightly-colored block of wood functioned as a table for a huge fluid-filled jar. A clown's laughing face was emblazoned on the block of wood, which looked to Justin like a gigantic child's building block. Inside the jar was an infant, whose lifeless body floated listlessly in that dark mire. It was the shriveled, prune-pocked carca.s.s of a pickled punk, a long-standing staple of every carnival Justin had ever attended. But there was something different about this one, something unsettling. Its arms swayed beneath it, almost as if there was some sort of voluntary movement within the thing, as if it wasn't quite dead, which Justin knew was impossible-nothing could be entombed in a jar of formaldehyde and still be alive.

"Creepy," Justin said.

"No s.h.i.t," said Reardon, who reached up through the bars and tapped a finger against the jar.

"Don't do that!" Justin told him.

"What?" Reardon said. "You think he's sleeping in there?"

"Just don't."

"And I thought I was a nerd," Reardon said, then, "C'mon."

Justin followed Reardon to the next enclosure, which housed a woman bigger than any he had ever before seen, bigger than any man he'd ever seen, for that matter. Just like the picture emblazoned on the side of the tent, she had on a long flowing dress, white, and as sheer as angel's wings. So flimsy was the fabric, Justin could see the dark areola surrounding her nipples, which stood like thumbs on the biggest set of b.r.e.a.s.t.s Justin had ever seen-even in the magazines Bo Johnson often showed up in the school playground with, he'd never laid eyes on anything like this. He didn't want to look, but he couldn't help himself. Reardon didn't mind gazing up at those things, apparently, because the first thing out of his mouth was, "Look at those t.i.ts!"

"Reardon," Justin said, red flushing his face as the fattest lady ever to cross his path smiled down at them. She had black hair and dark brown eyes. Her lips were thin, her eyebrows thick. Her teeth, small as nuggets of white corn, could barely be seen. She wore large round hoops in her ears and way too much makeup. Justin thought it could've been slapped on with a paint brush, it was so thick. Dark shadows surrounded her eyes; wide circles of rouge decorated her jowls, which looked to Justin like they'd have been just as at home on a big old bulldog. Justin wondered what she did, what her talent was, other than sitting on her stool like a lump.

She smiled and winked, pulled her dress up a little and pursed her lips.

"Oh, man," Reardon said, and Justin said, "Jesus."

The dress went higher, and Justin said, "Forget this!"

They moved further along, away from what Justin was quite sure had to be the fattest woman in the whole wide world-the universe, even!

"Did you see her t.i.ts?" Reardon said.

"Shut up, Reardon," Justin told him.

"What? You could see right through that dress."

"Like I'd want to."

"Like you didn't."

"Shut up."

"You looked, though," Reardon said. "Didn't you?"

"I'm not looking, now... thank G.o.d."

They were standing in front of another cage, the next one down the line. There was a guy in the cage. He could have been nineteen, could've been twenty. Not much older than that, though. Could've been a rock star, too, the way his straight brown hair flowed down across his shoulders. He had on a gold lame outfit with wide silver cuffs, a silver belt and sparkling silver shoes. There was a sword on his hip, sheathed in a thin metal casing patterned with diamond-shaped pearl inlays. He was thin like a rock star, too. He stood still as a statue, looking not at Justin and Mickey, but over them as if they weren't even there.

"What's wrong with him?" Reardon said.

"Does he even see us?" said Justin.

"I don't-"

"Of course he does!" It could have been the word of G.o.d coming down from the mountain, the voice of Moses calling down the plague. But it was neither of those things. It was the tall man, whose long shadow suddenly appeared across the bars of the cage before them.

A hand fell on each boy's outer shoulder, and they turned to see the tall man in his top hat and long flowing tails. Even kneeling down-which he had done-he still towered above them.

"Hannibal Cobb," he said. "At your service. The proprietor of this fine establishment you find yourselves in... As for our friend, Sammy, here; he sees you, he hears you. He waits your command."

"Huh?" Justin said.

"Just a figure of speech," Cobb said, smiling. "Sword Swallowing Sammy is here for your entertainment. Which starts right... about... "-Cobb snapped his fingers-"Now," he said, and Sword Swallowing Sammy drew the saber from its sheath. He smiled. He cradled the sword like a newborn babe and bowed. Then he straightened his lanky frame, laid back his head and positioned the blade above his open mouth. He stood that way for a moment before easing the gleaming point of the blade down past his lips, guiding it with his fingertips as it slid further in... further still... impossibly far, until the jewel-encrusted hilt was even with his nose. Then it was touching his lips and Justin was gasping, as first a slight bulge appeared in the seat of Sammy's pants, and then the pointed end of the blade-still gleaming-split the fabric.

"Holy cow!" Reardon said.

"Wow!" said Justin, as Sword Swallowing Sammy, his trick complete, drew the sword from his mouth, sheathed it and resumed the lethargic state Justin and Mickey had found him in before Hannibal Cobb had spurred him to action. He stood there, his dull, blank eyes looking out across the way, as Cobb snapped his fingers and another performer sprang to life. It was the Alligator Boy, who had dark green scales for skin, and the slitted pupils of a human reptile. He wore no shoes, nor did he wear a shirt, just a pair of dark green shorts. Several rows of ridges and b.u.mps covered his bare back. His legs were muscular, powerful-looking, as were the arms which hung down by his sides.

He smiled.

He grabbed the bars and shook them.

He dropped with a loud crash into a pile of straw, and Justin lost sight of him. He stood by Mickey, both boys peering into the cage as Hannibal Cobb's voice echoed throughout the tent: "Deep within the bowls of a Louisiana swamp, I found him! Slithering on the muddy banks of a backwoods bayou!"

There came a hiss, as if a cobra was lurking in the straw, and then the straw began to stir, to move. And then he saw it-they saw it. First the snout, then the snapping jaws of an alligator. No longer a man, he slithered around the confines of his cage. Gone were the arms and gone were the legs, replaced by four stubby appendages, and a thick, muscular tail displacing mounds of straw as he thrashed about the place. He lumbered up to the front of the cage, until he stood directly in front of Mickey and Justin. His mouth opened... wider... wider still, impossibly wide, until Justin knew that maw would swallow him whole if it reached him. He took a step back, staring at those sharp, jagged teeth, shivering at the thought of what might happen if those bars were suddenly gone.

Its clawed feet, which sure as h.e.l.l couldn't have been mistaken for hands now, grabbed hold of the bars, and the alligator began pulling itself up the side of the cage, those slitted, round eyes trained on Justin and Mickey as it progressed, until it suddenly stopped near the top of the cage, and then hung there, clutching those cold steel bars while its thick tail twitched slowly back and forth beneath it.

It shook its head and hissed, opened its mouth and a long glob of saliva drooped from it. Hissed again and the tail began suddenly to shrink. Claws turned to fingers as the snout began to fold in upon itself. Paws turned to feet and the alligator slowly morphed its way back into the Alligator Boy. Gone was the snout and long jagged teeth, replaced by a hard-scrabble face of rigid green scales. His feet hit the floor; his hands released the bars, and he was back, his powerful legs below him, his thick, muscular arms back at his sides. He stood for a moment, smiling. Then he took a long, low bow, and rose back up.

"Jesus," Reardon said.

And Hannibal Cobb, his voice filling the entire tent, said, "You ain't seen nothing yet!"

He clapped his hands and the lights winked out. Clapped again and an enormous popping noise filled the air around them-a split second later, there came the jolting flash of an old time photographer's pod, as a brilliant white light exploded within one of the cages, illuminating yet another performer. It was a young woman who had their attention now. She stood before them, posing, one leg straight, the other scissored behind it. Head thrown back, she held her arm out, her palm up, while the other arm rose behind and over her head, ballerina-style. Her outfit-not much more than a glorified swimsuit-didn't cover much of her at all. It was red, with thin navy-blue pinstripes that spider-webbed back and forth across it. She could have been Wonder Woman or Ultra Girl, or any of a number of comic book superheroes Justin spent his lazy Sat.u.r.day afternoons absorbed in.

But she wasn't Super Girl or The Cat Woman or anybody else. She was better than them, prettier than any woman Justin had ever seen-even in the movies, he had never seen anyone quite so beautiful as The Rubber Woman-not even close. Her short hair, cut in a stylish bob, lay flat against the sides of her head. She had black hair, and sparkling green eyes that could look right through to a young boys heart, ruby-red lips and long red nails. She was short and thin, but not too thin, and not too short. And unlike the fattest lady in the history of the world, her makeup was impeccably applied. She was a perfect woman, a creature of rare beauty who stood motionless before them; a performer awaiting her cue, which came with a wave of Hannibal Cobb's hand.

They stood in the dark, watching her leg slowly rise. Higher it went... higher still, until the entire leg was straight as a broomstick; the kneecap flat against her chest, the shinbone against the side of her face. She stood for a moment, one foot on the floor, the other touching the side of her head, one hip upside down as her leg ran straight up her body toward the ceiling. Then she reached up and folded her foot flat over the top of her head, turning her ruby-red slipper into a fashionable-looking piece of headwear.

She held that pose for a moment, one foot on the floor, the other curled over the top of her head. Then her leg dropped and her foot found the floor, her legs spread wide, and The Rubber Woman leaned back further than anyone had a right to, further than anyone should've been able. Her back arched. Then a wide curve began to form in it as her head dropped down level with her b.u.t.t, and her back began to grow, to stretch as if it were made of rubber, impossibly long as her shoulders contracted enough to slip up and under her wide-spread legs. Palms flattened against the ground, she curled backward beneath her, until her head was directly in front of her crotch. She stood that way, smiling, a grotesque picture of beauty, a portrait of deformed perfection that drew Justin closer, as a serpent's tongue flicked from her open mouth, wrapping like a runaway vine around one of the bars, and then slithering up it.

"Good G.o.d," Reardon said, and Justin said, "Wow!"

The Rubber Woman curled up into a perfectly formed ball, her arms and legs, her very flesh melding together, until all Justin could see was a round red swirl with eyes, and a wide mouth split across it. She had no arms or legs, nor even a head. She sat there for a moment, a big ball of flesh. Then she began to spin, as a basketball might spin on the extended finger of a trick-shot artist. Faster and faster she went, faster still, until suddenly she was rolling around the cage, bouncing and ricocheting off the bars, the floor and the ceiling, moving so blindingly quick that Justin saw nothing but a blurry red streak, until that streaking red form suddenly began to slow. No longer was she bouncing, or banging off bars like a runaway ping pong ball with a life of its own, nor was she even rolling. She was back in the center of the cage, spinning again, spinning in place, until quick as a blink of an eye, The Rubber Woman was back, twirling like a ballerina, a foot on the floor, one leg scissored behind the other, head thrown back, her arm out and her palm up, the other arm high above her head, whirling round and around, until her revolutions slowed to a halt and she was back where they'd found her, still as a statue smiling out at the dark.

"How did she do that?" Justin said.

"Why, magic, of course," said Hannibal Cobb. "Pure, unadulterated magic."

He stood directly behind Justin and Mickey, both of whom turned and looked up at him. He was enormous, Justin thought, towering above them almost as if he were on stilts, a thought that took him back to the tree line earlier this afternoon, when he'd first spotted him in his top hat and tails, towering over Fred Hagen the way he towered over them now. Those legs of his, so long and spindly they'd looked like a Praying Mantis should have been walking around on them. Earlier this afternoon, when a puff of smoke had changed the entire fabric of their reality. Early in the day when black became white, and two young boys saw things they never should have.

"Seriously," Reardon said. "How'd she do it? It's a trick, right? Some kind of sleight of hand."

"Everything, everywhere, is some kind of trick," Cobb said. "And anyone anywhere can do it... if they know how, that is. It's the details that trip you up, the knowledge of what they can lead to-or the lack of knowledge. Yep, the magic's in the details, just waiting to be discovered."

"Magic," Mickey scoffed, and Justin said, "Reardon." There was a cautionary tone in his voice, one that said, ease up, my friend... tread lightly.

But Reardon didn't ease off. He looked up at Hannibal Cobb, who smiled down at his two young companions, all three of them framed by light emanating from The Rubber Woman's cage, a light that had no reason being there at all, as far as Justin could tell. There were no fixtures in her cage, no dangling bulbs or stage lights. Yet there she stood, bathed in a steady glow, generated from G.o.d only knew where. Or Hannibal Cobb.

"Seriously," Reardon said. "It's all a trick, right? There's a trap door under the Alligator Man, he goes down and a real gator comes up. Some kind of holographic image with The Rubber Woman. Right? Some kind of trick."

"A trick, huh?" Cobb said.

"It's all a trick," Reardon said. "Everybody knows that."

"Is this a trick?" Cobb said. His hands dropped to his sides, and those incredibly long fingers began to wiggle.

Oh s.h.i.t, Justin thought, and knew by the look on Reardon's face that he was thinking the same thing.

Up went the hands, a couple of inches at a time, and as they rose, so rose the lights, as if someone somewhere was reversing a dimmer switch. There was a smile on Cobb's face, the smile of someone who knew exactly what was going through Justin's mind, which at that particular moment happened to be a singular puzzled thought trying to work out how the place could be lit up when, just as there were no lights or fixtures of any kind in The Rubber Woman's cage, there was nothing anywhere in the tent to generate any kind of light. Nothing on the poles that held the tent up, nothing anywhere. No fixtures, no electrical wires, no humming generators... nothing.

And, Justin suddenly noticed, there was no one in the tent other than he and Mickey, Hannibal Cobb and his line of caged Sideshow performers, who now stood silently by. The oohing and ah-ing crowd. Where were they, where had they gone? They were right there when the lights went out and The Rubber Woman stirred to life, and now they weren't. Had they slipped away in that instant of darkness, before the flash lit up her prison cell? Had they suddenly disappeared when Hannibal Cobb slammed his hands together? Were they even real? Justin hadn't witnessed their departure, nor had he noticed when the noise they'd been making had ceased to exist. He'd forgotten all about them, until now, when he looked around and realized they weren't there.

It was them, Justin and Mickey, and Hannibal Cobb, who stood before them in the Sideshow tent, arms held high above his head, the light around them now as bright as the mid afternoon sun shining down on the flatland. He stood there, smiling. His arms came down and so did the lights, until they stood in the middle of a soft yellow glow resembling light that would have been cast off by a series of torches.

He rubbed his index finger against the flat pad of his thumb and a short plume of flame grew from it. "Is that magic?" he asked them, and then reached into his pocket, pulled out his corncob pipe and clamped his teeth around its stem. Flame wavered from the tip of his finger as he touched it to the bowl and began to draw. Then he released a simple little smoke ring that started out small but quickly expanded, as Cobb shook his finger like a matchstick and the flame disappeared.

"Is that magic?" he said, as the ever-expanding ring of smoke hung frozen in the air before them.

"Is this?" he said, as a flicker of light appeared inside a three-foot wide ring of smoke, a video image of two wide-eyed young boys laying a couple of bikes over in the weeds, Justin Henry and Mickey Reardon standing in the tree line in the middle of the afternoon, eyes full of wonderment as they gazed up at the sky; backing up, and then grabbing their bikes and racing away down that old dirt road.

"Or is it just a trick?" Cobb said. He waved his hand and the smoke ring started to rise, changing shape as it went, forming two white ponies that galloped skyward in wide sweeping circles. Up, up, and up they went, racing side by side toward the white canvas roof of the tent.

"How did you do that?" Reardon said, his head thrown back, still looking toward the roof of the tent.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I sure would," said Justin.

"And if you did know?"

"Man, I'd practice and practice *til I was good as you-better, even! Then I'd start my own carnival, and travel around the world!"

"Man," Reardon said. "I wish I could do stuff like that."

"Wish I may oh wish I might," Cobb said.

"Huh?" said Reardon.

"Just say it," Cobb said.

"What are you-"

"Wish I may oh wish I might," Cobb said.

"What're you talking about?" Reardon said.

"Anything you want," Cobb said. "Anything in this whole wide world. Wish it and it shall be yours."

"Yeah, right," Reardon said. "What're you now, the Wish Master?"

"I am Hannibal Cobb, and I've traveled these back roads longer than you could ever imagine. I've seen the good and I've seen the bad, and I can give you what you want. Whatever you want. All you need do... is wish it."

Reardon looked at Cobb, at Justin, then back at Cobb.

"Anything?" he said.

"Your heart's desire," said Cobb. He was smiling now, his black eyes were flashing. And Justin, who had seen that smile before, said, "Don't, Mickey. Don't do it." He'd seen those eyes flashing, the full moon shining down on Hannibal Cobb and Jack Everett's black Caddy, and on an emaciated old Negro who looked like he'd stepped right out of the grave. He'd seen the moon and he'd seen those eyes, and somehow, he knew something wasn't right.

"You could bring my father back?"

"Of course, but is it your father you want back? Maybe it's your mother. Maybe she's gone, too?"

"I want my dad to come home."

"Then say it... I wish I may... oh wish I might."

"Don't, Mickey."